to the love i left my conscience pressed
by avaire
Summary: Nothing good happens after your boyfriend's not in Manhattan and you're drinking with his really good friend. One shot.


This fic was inspired by this curious thing Robin says to Lily in season 2, episode 4:

"You know how many times I could've cheated on [Ted]? Six, no seven. You know two of them, and they would surprise you."

What if one of those guys was Barney Stinson? Set in the late summer before Season 2.

* * *

When it's past twelve in the morning and when Ted's gone for the night visiting Cousin Stacy's son at the emergency room on Staten Island, Robin Scherbatsky likes to have fun. Fun in the form of unregulated drinking, carousing, and generally bad behavior. But not too bad, since she's a taken girl, and she l-l…likes Ted. A lot. He's a good guy, nice, sweet, solid. There for her. Sure he's been whining a _ton _about work recently, but Robin's willing to make sacrifices in the name of sex. And other stuff. Like cuddling.

Yeah, cuddling's kind of nice in moderation. Like scotch. Except cuddling's simple, while scotch burns and makes her tipsy to the point of incoherence, and—

Barney Stinson sits in such a weird way. He spreads his legs, like a hooker, and like everything else about him, it's mutedly sexual in nature. Yet he seems totally comfortable with his crotch in full view (the tight, form-fitting pants don't help), and it disturbs Robin how he's so relaxed, almost to the point of obscenity. His shoulders and arms, meanwhile, tell a different story. They're tense. Robin wonders why.

"Why do you think, Scherbatsky?" He starts to jiggle his right leg up and down. It rubs against her left, the expensive fabric of his trousers creating gentle fiction against her semi-bare thigh.

_Summer in New York, _she thinks.

"Summer in New York?" she says.

"'Summer in New York'? What—no, the hell is that supposed to mean?" Barney shakes his head and turns his upper body toward her. His eyes dance with thinly veiled secrets. "Listen here, Scherbatsky, and listen close. Do you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"That sound!"

"You mean the jukebox?"

"No, that other sound." He gestures vaguely in the air with long fingers. Robin makes a shoddy attempt to listen for whatever he means. She fails.

"I don't hear anything."

"Of course _you _don't. I almost forgot. You're in a relationship." He rolls his eyes and loosens his tie. Blue, silk.

Robin shrugs. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're dating. You're having sex on a regular basis." Barney sighs dramatically. "You wouldn't understand my sad, single, miserable plight."

"Try me."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. We're friends. Try me." She sits up straighter, eyes a little brighter. "Pretend I'm your therapist! Tell me about your day."

"I don't want to talk about my day. I want to talk about how horny I am right now."

Her eyebrows shoot up. Leave it to Barney to jump straight to the point. "Um, _what?"_

"This is why I said you wouldn't understand."

"Well, what did you mean by that sound then?"

"It was the sound of vaginas being boarded up all around me, obviously. God, you're a terrible therapist." He knocks his glass back, sucking up every last drop of scotch.

And Robin licks her lips, offended. "How was I supposed to hear _that_, Barney?"

"Like I said, you have sex."

"I'm also a girl. A straight girl."

"Riiiight," he drawls, winking. Ugh. Robin hates how that unnerves her. She grabs a green napkin off the table and starts to rip it apart.

"If you're going through a dry spell, why don't you do something about it?" she asks a few seconds later.

"I can't tonight."

"Why? Pickings are far from slim. There's a hottie at four o'clock. Big boobs. Long legs. Just your type."

"Excuse me? My 'type'? How do you know my type?"

"Boobs and legs are always your type."

"Well, maybe I'm into face and butt this week, Robin."

"Then check out nine o'clock. Ooh, yeah, look at that ass. C'mon, seriously, look at that ass." She pauses. "Why aren't you looking?"

He mumbles something she can't make out and signals for Wendy to get them another round. Robin sneaks a glance at his collarbone and spies a hickey on his neck, purple and unsightly.

Not having sex, her ass. "You're lying."

"What?"

"You aren't in a dry spell. You have a hickey on your neck!"

"No, I don't."

"Yes, you do."

"Barney Stinson doesn't get hickeys. He gives them, but he does not _get—" _

She can't tell if it's the scotch or the heat or the force of sheer perversion, but she grabs his white collar, yanks it down. When she presses three fingers against bruised skin, Barney yelps.

"See? Hickey."

"Yeah, okay, _fine! _I may have kissed a girl this afternoon."

"More like mauled a girl. It's the only explanation for why she mauled you right back."

"I prefer the phrase 'making love to my neck.'"

"Really? Eww."

"Oh, grow up! Ted's been making love to your neck all week."

"Seriously, Barney, stop—"

"Then how do you explain _this?" _He grazes two knuckles against her hair and presses his thumb into a tender spot below her ear. Ohhhhhhhh, crap. Crap, crap, crap.

She pulls away. "I wasn't debating the hickeys Ted's given me. I was telling you to stop using that phrase, 'make love to your neck.' It doesn't sound right. It sounds wrong."

"The only thing that sounds wrong is the phrase 'giving you a hickey,' because 'giving you a hickey' sounds a lot worse than 'making love to your neck.'"

"No, it doesn't!"

"Yeah it does. Imagine you were a non-native English speaker. If you heard the word 'hickey,' your mind would automatically jump to disease and compromised immune systems and allergic reactions. If you heard the words 'make love,' you'd think sex. All night long."

"That's ridiculous. That's literally ridiculous."

"You're literally ridiculous."

"Oh, shut up."

Wendy returns with their scotch. Barney raises his glass. She clinks hers against it. "To hickeys."

"To making love to your neck." He smirks. "May you have many more prosperous lovemaking to your neck sessions with Teddy boy."

Robin chokes a little on her drink. Ted. He's at the hospital, and she's flirting with his really good friend. Is this why her stomach's in knots? Is this why her face is in flames?

As she coughs, Barney pats a comforting hand across her back. Robin's first instinct is to lean into his touch, so naturally she leans away. But not before he unhooks her bra.

"Did you just unhook my bra?"

"What? No. You…unhooked _your_ bra. Chyah."

"You totally did just unhook my bra! What the hell, Barney?" She scrambles to reattach the clasps through her shirt, her hands shaking too much for her liking.

Barney has the decency to look away, ashamed. "Reflex. Sorry. Sorry."

"Yeah, whatever." Robin is more angry at herself than him anyway. She shouldn't have let this happen. She shouldn't be here.

She stares the bruise on his neck for a long minute as he eyes a rowdy crowd of twenty-one year old girls. She should go. Robin Scherbatsky should go. Before she screws things up, before she gets any funny ideas, she should go.

Her hand brushes against his as she reaches for the tab. To her surprise he does not fight for it.

"I got it," she says, and still he does not fight for it.

When she gets up to leave, because this whole drinking past midnight with Barney thing is weird, a real eye-opener, he grabs her wrist. She doesn't flinch, just looks at him as he looks back.

"Sorry, Scherbatsky. Seriously. Don't tell Ted?"

"As long as you don't tell him either."

"It never happened," he agrees.

"Of course. It never happened."

"What never happened?"

Robin laughs and turns away. It takes her five minutes to trudge upstairs and, after settling on the couch, she retches onto the latest issue of _Architecture Weekly._


End file.
